[THS] !!! Nick Turse: American War Versus Real War

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http://www.informationclearinghouse.info/article25935.htm

American War Versus Real War

By Nick Turse


July 14, 2010 "Tomgram" -- One striking aspect of the Vietnam years -- and the
antiwar movement of that era -- was the degree to which you could see images of
Vietnamese civilian suffering here in the United States.  Among the iconic images of
that war, for instance, was Nick Ut’s photo of a young girl, burned by napalm from
an air strike, running down a road screaming.  And among war images, it was by no
means alone.  There were, of course, the horrific shots Army photographer Ron
Haeberle took of what became known as the My Lai massacre as it was happening.
After a long and tortuous journey, those photos finally appeared as a ten-page
centerfold-from-hell in LIFE magazine (even if an African antelope was on its cover).
Along with the piles of bodies of slaughtered women, children, and old men, the
“eyewitness” text was little short of startling: “One body, an old man, had a ‘C’ carved
on his chest”; “A GI grabbed the girl and with the help of others started stripping
her... ‘VC boom-boom,’ another said, telling the 13-year-old that she was a whore for
the Vietcong,” and so on.

I wouldn’t want to exaggerate the degree of American compassion for the suffering
of Vietnamese civilians, but it existed, along with those images.  And because, at least
in the precincts of the antiwar movement, such imagery was regularly before
American eyes -- some eyes anyway -- and on minds, the suffering and destruction
our soldiers were bringing to ordinary civilians in a distant, disastrous war was far
clearer then.

Strangely enough, though, in the American screen war that followed the real war by
some years, Vietnamese suffering largely disappeared.  Left screen center was
usually the American platoon, a kind of “lost patrol” in an alien land, part of what,
even during the war, was regularly referred to as an American -- but not a
Vietnamese -- “tragedy.”  From Oliver Stone’s Platoon and Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal
Jacket to Robert Zemeckis’s Forrest Gump, Vietnamese suffering became, at best, a
distant backdrop for American suffering, and the war’s conflicts essentially took place
among Americans within that platoon.  (A rare exception was Good Morning,
Vietnam, but you would never again, in all those post-war years, see a scene like the
first one in Peter Davis’s Oscar-winning 1974 documentary Hearts and Minds, which
opens on a Vietnamese village, quiet and peaceful, before you notice the silhouettes
of soldiers entering -- intruding on an emerald green land, really -- from the edge of
the screen.)

Even more strangely, as Nick Turse points out in his discussion of Sebastian Junger’s
new film Restrepo, our Afghan War is now generally being recorded in real time in
the fashion made familiar to Americans on screen in the post-Vietnam years -- that is,
largely without Afghan suffering.   Not surprisingly, Americans now pay remarkably
little attention to the civilians whose lives have been destroyed in our invasions and
prolonged occupations of Iraq and Afghanistan.  Turse, who won a Ridenhour Prize
for Reportorial Distinction for his Nation magazine piece, “A My Lai a Month,” on
suppressed information about a series of mass killings by U.S. forces in Vietnam’s
Mekong Delta, has never reported from a war zone.  But over these last years, he’s
traveled much of Vietnam, and more recently Cambodia, interviewing those
(especially Vietnamese and Cambodian civilians) who were under fire. 
	-- Tom
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    Death on Your Doorstep
    What Sebastian Junger and Restrepo Won’t Tell You About War
    By Nick Turse

    I’ve never heard a shot fired in anger.  But I might know a little bit more about
war than Sebastian Junger.

    Previously best known as the author of The Perfect Storm, Junger, a New York-
based reporter who has covered African wars and the Kosovo killing fields, and Tim
Hetherington, an acclaimed film-maker and photographer with extensive experience
in conflict zones, heard many such shots, fired by Americans and Afghans, as they
made their new documentary film Restrepo -- about an isolated combat outpost
named after a beloved medic killed in a firefight. There, they chronicled the lives of
U.S. soldiers from Battle Company, 2nd Battalion, 503rd Infantry Regiment of the
173rd Airborne Brigade, during a tour of duty in eastern Afghanistan’s Korengal
Valley.

    The film has been almost universally praised by mainstream reviewers and was
awarded the Grand Jury Prize at this year’s Sundance Film Festival.  A New York
Times “critics’ pick,” Restrepo moved the newspaper’s A.O. Scott to end his glowing
review by telling readers: “As the war in Afghanistan returns to the front pages and
the national debate, we owe the men in ‘Restrepo,’ at the very least, 90 minutes or
so of our attention.”  In the Los Angeles Times, reviewer Betsy Sharkey concluded in
similar fashion: “What ‘Restrepo’ does so dramatically, so convincingly, is make the
abstract concrete, giving the soldiers on the front lines faces and voices.”

    Along with Hetherington, Junger, who has also recently experienced great success
with his companion book War, shot about 150 hours of footage in the Korengal Valley
in 2007 and 2008 during a combined 10 trips to the country.  “This is war, full stop,”
reads website prose above their directors’ statement about the film.

    It isn’t.

    Junger and Hetherington may know something about Afghanistan, a good deal
about combat, and even more about modern American troops, but there’s precious
little evidence in Restrepo that -- despite the title of Junger’s book -- they know the
true face of war.

    War on Your Doorstep

    Earlier this year, Junger reviewed a new Vietnam War novel, veteran Karl
Marlantes’s Matterhorn, for the New York Times Book Review.  In a glowing front-
page appraisal, he wrote, “Combat is not really what ‘Matterhorn’ is about; it is about
war. And in Marlantes’s hands, war is a confusing and rich world where some men
die heroically, others die because of bureaucratic stupidity, and a few are deliberately
killed by platoon-mates bearing a grudge.”  Analyzing Junger’s misreading of
Matterhorn helps to unlock his misconceptions about war and explains the problems
that dog his otherwise cinematically-pleasing, and in some ways useful, film.

    Millions of Vietnamese were killed and wounded over the course of what the
Vietnamese call the “American War” in Southeast Asia.  About two million of those
dead were Vietnamese civilians.  They were blown to pieces by artillery, blasted by
bombs, and massacred in hamlets and villages like My Lai, Son Thang, Thanh Phong,
and Le Bac, in huge swaths of the Mekong Delta, and in little unnamed enclaves like
one in Quang Nam Province.  Matterhorn touches on none of this.  Marlantes focuses
tightly on a small unit of Americans in a remote location surrounded by armed enemy
troops -- an episode that, while pitch perfect in depiction, represents only a sliver of a
fraction of the conflict that was the Vietnam War.

    It’s not surprising that this view of war appealed to Junger.  In Restrepo, it’s his
vision of war, too.

    Restrepo’s repeated tight shots on the faces of earnest young American soldiers
are the perfect metaphor for what’s lacking in the film and what makes it almost
useless for telling us anything of note about the real war in Afghanistan.  Only during
wide shots in Restrepo do we catch fleeting glimpses of that real war.

    In the opening scenes, shot from an armored vehicle (before an improvised
explosive device halts a U.S. Army convoy), we catch sight of Afghan families in a
village.  When the camera pans across the Korengal Valley, we see simple homes on
the hillsides.  When men from Battle Company head to a house they targeted for an
air strike and see dead locals and wounded children, when we see grainy footage of
a farm family or watch a young lieutenant, a foreigner in a foreign land, intimidating
and interrogating an even younger goat herder (whose hands he deems to be too
clean to really belong to a goat herder) -- here is the real war.  And here are the
people Junger and Hetherington should have embedded with if they wanted to learn
-- and wanted to teach us -- what American war is really all about.

    Few Americans born after the Civil War know much about war.  Real war.  War
that seeks you out.  War that arrives on your doorstep -- not once in a blue moon,
but once a month or a week or a day.  The ever-present fear that just when you’re at
the furthest point in your fields, just when you’re most exposed, most alone, most
vulnerable, it will come roaring into your world.

    Those Americans who have gone to war since the 1870s -- soldiers or civilians --
have been mostly combat tourists, even those who spent many tours under arms or
with pen (or computer) in hand reporting from war zones.  The troops among them,
even the draftees or not-so-volunteers of past wars, always had a choice -- be it
fleeing the country or going to prison.  They never had to contemplate living out a
significant part of their life in a basement bomb shelter or worry about scrambling
out of it before a foreign soldier tossed in a grenade.  They never had to go through
the daily dance with doom, the sense of fear and powerlessness that comes when
foreign troops and foreign technology hold the power of life and death over your
village, your home, each and every day.

    The ordinary people whom U.S. troops have exposed to decades of war and
occupation, death and destruction, uncertainty, fear, and suffering -- in places like
Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, Iraq, and Afghanistan -- have had no such choice.  They
had no place else to go and no way to get there, unless as exiles and refugees in
their own land or neighboring ones.  They have instead been forced to live with the
ever-present uncertainty that comes from having culturally strange, oddly attired,
heavily armed American teenagers roaming their country, killing their countrymen,
invading their homes, arresting their sons, and shouting incomprehensible
commands laced with the word “fuck” or derivations thereof.

    Since World War I, it’s been civilians who have most often born the
disproportionate brunt of modern warfare.  It’s been ordinary people who have lived
with war day after day.  In Restrepo such people -- Afghan elders seeking
information on someone the Americans detained, villagers seeking compensation for
an injured cow the Americans butchered into fresh steaks, and a man who angrily
asks the Americans and their translator to point out the Taliban among civilians killed
by a U.S. air strike -- are just supporting characters or extras.

    “[W]e did not interview Afghans,” Junger and Hetherington write in their directors’
statement.  These are, however, precisely the people who know the most about war.
And somehow I can’t believe Junger doesn’t intuitively know this.  Surely it stands to
reason that Afghan civilians in the Korengal Valley and elsewhere -- some of whom
have lived through the Soviet occupation, the bloody civil war of the early 1990s that
saw the Taliban take power, and now almost a decade of American and allied foreign
occupation -- have a better understanding of war than any of Junger’s corn-fed
twenty-somethings who are combat tourists for about a year at a time (even if they
serve multiple tours of duty).

    War in the Dark

    This critical local knowledge, all but missing from Restrepo, is driven home in
footage from a PBS Frontline report in which one of Restrepo’s “stars,” Captain Dan
Kearney, speaks to an Afghan elder, Haji Zalwar Khan, in the Korengal Valley in July
2008.  It’s around the time Restrepo ends, just as Kearney is about to hand-off his
command to another American officer-cum-war-tourist.

    “You people shoot at least one house a day.  Last night you shot a house in
Kandalay,” says Khan.  In response, Kearney offers a visibly skeptical smile and
predictable excuses.

    “You people are like lightning when you strike a house, you kill everything inside,”
Khan continues.  Later, when Frontline correspondent Elizabeth Rubin is able to talk
to him alone, the elder tells her that the conflict will end when the Americans depart.
“When they leave there will be no fighting,” he assures her. “The insurgents exist to
fight the Americans.”

    Perhaps it’s only natural that Junger is focused (or perhaps the more appropriate
word would be fixated) not on Afghans wounded or killed in their own homes, or
even guerillas seeking to expel the foreign occupiers from the valley, but on the
young volunteers fighting the U.S. war there.  They are a tiny, self-selected minority
of Americans whom the government has called upon again and again to serve in its
long-festering post-9/11 occupations.  And presumably for reasons ranging from
patriotism to a lack of other prospects, these mostly baby-faced young men -- there
are no female troops in the unit -- volunteered to kill on someone else’s orders for yet
others’ reasons.  Such people are not uninteresting.

    For an American audience, they, and their suffering, provide the easiest entree
into the Afghan war zone.  They also offer the easiest access for Junger and
Hetherington.  The young troops naturally elicit sympathy because they are besieged
in the Korengal Valley and suffer hardships.  (Albeit normally not hardships
approaching the severity of those Afghans experience.)  In addition, of course,
Junger speaks their language, hails from their country, and understands their
cultural references.  He gets them.

    Even in an American context, what he doesn’t get, the soldiers he can’t
understand, are those who made up the working-class force that the U.S. fielded in
Vietnam.  That military was not a would-be warrior elite for whom “expeditionary”
soldiering was just another job choice.  It was instead a mélange of earnest
volunteers, not unlike the men in Restrepo, along with large numbers of draftees and
draft-induced enlistees most of whom weren’t actively seeking the life of foreign
occupiers and weren’t particularly interested in endlessly garrisoning far-off lands
where locals sought to kill them.

    In his review of Marlantes’s Matterhorn, Junger confesses:

    “For a reporter who has covered the military in its current incarnation, the events
recounted in this book are so brutal and costly that they seem to belong not just to
another time but to an­other country. Soldiers openly contemplate killing their
commanders. They die by the dozen on useless missions designed primarily to help
the careers of those above them. The wounded are unhooked from IV bags and left
to die because others, required for battle, are growing woozy from dehydration and
have been ordered to drink the precious fluid. Almost every page contains some
example of military callousness or incompetence that would be virtually inconceivable
today, and I found myself wondering whether the book was intended as an
indictment of war in general or a demonstration of just how far this nation has come
in the last 40 years.”

    As the American War in Vietnam staggered to a close, U.S. troops were in an open
state of rebellion.  Fraggings -- attacks on commanders (often by fragmentation
grenade) -- were rising, so was the escape into drug use.  Troops bucked orders,
mutinied, and regularly undertook “search and evade” missions, holing up in safe
spots while calling in false coordinates.

    AWOLs and desertions went through the roof.  During World War II, Marine Corps
desertion rates peaked at 8.8 per 1,000 in 1943.  In 1972, the last full year of U.S.
combat in Vietnam, the Marines had a desertion rate of 65.3 per 1,000.  And precious
few Marines were even in Vietnam at that point.  AWOL rates were also staggering --
166.4 per 1,000 for the much more numerous Army and 170 per 1,000 for the
Marines.  In a widely-read 1971 Armed Forces Journal article, retired Colonel Robert
D. Heinl, Jr., wrote, “By every conceivable indicator, our army that now remains in
Vietnam is in a state of approaching collapse, with individual units avoiding or having
refused combat, murdering their officers and noncommissioned officers, drug-ridden,
and dispirited where not near-mutinous.”

    It didn’t take rocket-scientists to figure out that you couldn’t conduct long-term,
wheel-spinning occupations in distant lands with a military like that.  And so the long-
occupation-friendly all-volunteer force that Junger has come to know was born.  That
he has such a hard time understanding the citizen-soldier response to the American
lost cause in Vietnam essentially ensures that the civilian story of war, especially that
of alien civilians in a distant land, would evade his understanding.  This is what
makes the relative isolation of the unit he deals with in Restrepo so useful, even
comfortable for him as he assesses a very American version of what war is all about.

    By 1969, it was apparent where the Vietnam War was going and, increasingly,
soldiers balked at the prospect of being the last man to die for their country in a
disastrous war.  While it turned out that about 15,000 Americans would die in
Vietnam from 1969 to 1971 (almost as many as had died from 1965 to 1967), the
troops were increasingly angry about it.

    Body armor, drone warfare, ultra-rapid medevacs, and a host of other
technological innovations, not to mention battling tiny numbers of relatively weak, ill-
armed, and generally unpopular guerillas, has meant that Junger’s new model
military can fight its wars with minimal American casualties and, so far, less upset at
home (or even perhaps in the field).  Today, the numbers of dead Americans like
Juan S. Restrepo, the medic for whom the outpost in Junger’s film was named,
remain relatively few compared, at least, to Vietnam.  Just over 1,100 U.S. troops
have died in and around Afghanistan since 2001.

    On the other hand, who knows how many Afghan civilians have died over that
span, thanks to everything from insurgent IEDs, suicide attacks, and beheadings to
U.S. air strikes, special operations forces’ night raids, and road checkpoint shootings,
not to speak of every other hardship the American war in Afghanistan has unleashed,
exacerbated, or intensified?  Who knows their stories?  Who has documented their
unending suffering?  Few have bothered.  Few, if any, have risked their own lives to
chronicle day-to-day life for months on end in embattled Afghan villages.  Yet it's
there, not in some isolated American outpost, that you would find the real story of
war to film.  In the place of such a work, we have Restrepo.

    Even an all-volunteer army will eventually collapse if pushed too far for too long.
Soldiers will eventually slip, if not explode, into revolt or at least will begin to evade
orders, but the prospect looks unlikely any time soon for the U.S. military.  Unlike
Afghan civilians, U.S. troops go home or at least leave the combat zone after their
tours of duty.  And if most Americans don’t necessarily give them much thought
much of the time, they evidently have no problem paying them to make war, or
engaging in effortless tributes to them, like rising at baseball games for a seventh-
inning stretch salute.

    In what passes for a poignant scene in Restrepo, Captain Kearney addresses his
troops after a sister unit takes uncharacteristically heavy casualties.  He says that they
can take a few moments to mourn, but then it’s time to get back into the fight.  It’s
time for pay-back, time to make the enemy feel the way they’re feeling.  He then
gives his men time for prayer.

    If Kearney ever called his troops together and set aside a moment for prayer in
memory of the civilians they killed or wounded, Junger and Hetherington missed it,
or chose not to include it.  Most likely, it never happened.  And most likely, Americans
who see Restrepo won’t find that odd at all.  Nor will they think it cold, insensitive, or
prejudiced to privilege American lives over those of Afghans.  After all, according to
Junger, “military callousness” has gone the way of America’s Vietnam-vintage F-4
Phantom fighter-bomber.

    If Americans care only sparingly for their paid, professional soldiers -- the ones
A.O. Scott says deserve 90 minutes of our time -- they care even less about Afghan
civilians.  That’s why they don’t understand war.  And that’s why they’ll think that the
essence of war is what they’re seeing as they sit in the dark and watch Restrepo.

    Nick Turse is the associate editor of TomDispatch.com.  An award-winning
journalist, his work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the Nation, and regularly
at TomDispatch. He is the author of The Complex: How the Military Invades Our
Everyday Lives.  His latest book, The Case for Withdrawal from Afghanistan (Verso),
which brings together leading analysts from across the political spectrum, will be
published in September.  His website is NickTurse.com.

    [Note on further reading and viewing:  For an excellent article by Sebastian
Junger that shows a much deeper understanding of the true nature of war, see his
award-winning 1999 Vanity Fair piece, “The Forensics of War.”  For work by Tim
Hetherington that does the same, see the 2007 documentary The Devil Came on
Horseback, for which he was a cameraman.]

    Copyright 2010 Nick Turse